prince of fire
by Penthepoet
Summary: (One shot, set post-S8.) In which Daario Naharis goes to Asshai in order to win back his Queen, and realizes there is more to blood magic than he thinks. [An exercise I made for myself in order to test my old fanfiction skills. Take pity on me.]


Daario Naharis had tried his best to rule Meereen the way his Queen had wanted him to. His statecraft wasn't always the most tactful, so oftentimes he'd utilized the subtle and time-honored arts of "that's another person's problem" and "You handle that". It was something he was still getting the hang of, in short. He didn't enjoy it, but he did it anyway, and he did it for her.

He had waited until the end of the world, until her side of the bed had long grown cold.  
The things he did for love.

He had waited until the day he learned the news of what had been done to Daenerys. 

It was on one of the hottest Essos summers of record. The sun sweltered above him as he sat on the balcony, the one overlooking the city itself. He remembered being up here with Daenerys; _Dany, _he had called her up here, _Dany, I'll bring the moon for you_. The name and the teasing tone to his voice had made her smile, and her smiles were always so bright..

It had felt like an eternity that she had been gone, and he felt it keen in his chest.

He was sipping a fine Dornish vintage, the taste of it fruity and intense on his tongue. The man who came to tell him the news was bawling. He'd had to tell the man to speak up, to say it. At once, it poured off of his tongue and became real.

_Our Mhysa is gone.. Our Mhysa is dead._

He had accused the man of lying. He had gone through to screaming, to anger, to sadness.

To add insult to injury, word came from spies in Westeros - the man who had killed her was the same man who had fucked her. Jon Snow. He spent hours fantasizing about how he would kill Jon Snow. Knife to the back? Too quick. Cutting his hamstrings, letting him bleed out? Better, but he'd wanted something more gruesome.

It wasn't just that she had forgotten him (even though she had, she had turned her back on him for the dream of a spring that never came), it wasn't just that she had cheated on him (with a sultry-eyed man, they described, a man of a rugged beauty), it was that after all of it, she had been killed by the same man who she had fucked (had loved) so much.

Lesser men would have called it justice. Lesser men would have turned their backs on their memories of the Dragon Queen and fucked their time away with others.

Daario Naharis was not one of those lesser men. He had been nothing, but with her, he felt moved to something higher. Moved to be with her, to love her, to kiss the fire until it scorched him to the point of delirium.

They say that the Breaker of Chains inspired a sort of fervent devotion in her followers, a fanaticism that went beyond bone-deep. At this point, Daario felt it. He had settled on flaying Jon Snow when he had his Idea.

Sure, he'd had ideas, but not often did he had Ideas. He had only had them a few times in his life, and every time he had, they had fundamentally changed who he was. His Idea was simple.

He had a lock of her hair, something he'd cut off and kept for himself before she left. He had scraps of clothes where she had bled, kept for himself during those nights he was alone. He had a determination to shake the ends of the world. He had an Idea. He had knowledge of who to see, what to do.

He would go to Asshai-by-the-Shadow, the place of horrors, and he would find a way to bring her back into the world. No matter how much fire and blood it took, he would have her again. He would hold her again. Maybe then she could break the wheel like she had always wanted. Maybe then he could rule by her side again, he could kill Jon Snow and everything would go back to the way it was in Meereen, the way it should have been.

He'd given his position of King of Meereen to a trusted advisor. The man had been serving for years. He deserved it, and would handle anything that came up with a fervor far greater than Daario had for ruling right now.

Daario found the trip from Meereen, to Qarth, to Asshai to be the longest and most aggravating he'd ever had. Days after days of trudging towards a location he barely knew.

The city sent shivers down his spine when he entered for the first time. He was a mercenary, but he was no fool. He knew that many reputable maegi could be found in Asshai, for this was the place of their training. It was through the twisting streets, labyrinthine in nature, that he got to the place he was searching for.

It was marked with a bloody glyph. He made his way inside slowly, looking about. The place seemed oddly tidy. Herbs hung from the ceiling and incense curled into his nostrils as he waited at the front.

The woman that approached was beautiful to the point of being uncanny. Her eyes were a dull, listless red. He could immediately tell she was armed with a dagger - part of his training as a Mercenary. Strapped to her thigh, most likely.

"Mercenary.." the woman hissed, her voice a thin coil.

"I do have a name," Daario joked. "Daario Naharis, at your service-"

"I know what you want."

Daario blinked.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You seek the Prince of Fire," the woman responded in High Valyrian, "you seek to bring the Prince back into this world from the unjust fate the world delivered."

Daario nodded. "Yes, yes, I seek her, I want her back." His eyes glittered with desperation, and the woman could see it keenly. Her eyes narrowed, and she seemed to smirk. "Give me the price."

He handed over the lock of her hair, along with the scraps of her clothing, and the woman chuckled.

"Follow me, and you may watch me bring back the Prince of Fire - the true-born Heir."

The fire flares bright orange, bright red. The woman throws spices into the fire, chanting in ancient and guttural tones. She raises a scrap of cloth. In the dim light, Daario does not notice that it is not the scrap of hair and cloth he gave her.

He does not notice the nature of the spear she grabs, something he could have picked up on quick as a flash were he not distracted by the thought of seeing his lover again, his Queen, his Dany, _his Dany -_

The woman raises the spear and stabs it into the fire.

It is too late that Daario realizes that the man who stands from the flame, in the peak of his youth, is not Daenerys Targaryen.

The man's eyes flick up. Viper eyes, a sign of what he was and what he always will be.

It is too late that Daario realizes who stands in front of him, who stalks from the flame.

Oberyn Martell flashes a grin at him, and Daario feels a chill run down his spine.

"So, what have I missed?"


End file.
